


Too Old for Fairy Tales

by Corvidology



Series: Collection of POI fic by Draycevixen [61]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Jealousy, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon Fix-It, Soul Bond, Soulmates, Trope Inversion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 09:09:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16658269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvidology/pseuds/Corvidology
Summary: Written for the 2018 Person of Interest Big Bang.Most days, he felt like his life wasn't really that different from Harold Wren's or a lot of other New York white collar workers. He got up, exercised, showered and shaved, put on a conservative black suit and bought tea, coffee and pastries for the office on the way to work.Blythechild's brilliant artwork for this story can be found byfollowing this link. I am, as always, humbled and grateful, petal. ♥





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blythechild](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blythechild/gifts).



Most days, he felt like his life wasn't really that different from Harold Wren's or a lot of other New York white collar workers. He got up, exercised, showered and shaved, put on a conservative black suit and bought tea, coffee and pastries for the office on the way to work. Admittedly, the 'accounts' he managed involved a lot more Heckler & Koch and Barrett M107s, kneecapping and hand-to-hand combat than the usual types, but the specs fell mostly within standard parameters and he was an excellent closer.

It was shaping up to be a day like most other days. 

"Meet David Greene. There's nothing unusual about him." Harold sipped the Sencha green tea John had brought him as they stood shoulder to shoulder at the board. "He's a real estate agent and a law abiding, taxpaying citizen. His social media suggests he has a very close and loving family and plenty of friends. He did break-up with his fiancée, Annie Lynch, recently" Harold gestured to her picture up on the board beside Greene's "but their relationship remains amicable."

"Maybe not as amicable as it looks." 

Harold turned to look at him. "I wish you wouldn't always leap to the worst possible conclusions about people, Mr. Reese."

That was easy for Harold to say. He hadn't lived John's life. 

"Give me his address and I'll look into it."

 

When he'd got to the number's apartment building, Greene was just leaving. He'd followed him to a bakery where he'd picked up a doughnut and some coffee and then to the post office where he'd checked his mailbox and mailed some letters. From there, they'd taken a long, rambling walk to a day spa. And then all hell had broken loose. 

 

"Finch?"

"Yes, Mr. Reese?"

"I have Greene." He turned to look again at the pitiful sight of Greene's hunched over form, handcuffed to a masseuse table. "Fusco's on his way to pick him up."

"What happened?"

"I followed him to a day spa. By the time I made it inside – I had to schedule you for a 'mani-pedi' whatever the hell that is – he had one of the massage therapists backed up against the wall of her treatment room with a knife at her throat."

"Are you— all unharmed?"

"It didn't take much effort to disarm him. He was raging, crying and could barely see straight."

"Do you know why he was trying to kill her, Mr. Reese?"

"His fiancée had been there for a massage to relax from all the wedding planning stress and didn't think to keep her protective patch on as she'd never been attracted to women."

"Oh, no." It didn't take a genius like Finch to realize where this story was heading. 

"The masseuse and Annie were bondmates – Greene was yelling about matching Om symbols— which was why she broke off her engagement to Greene. Like I said earlier, maybe not so amicable a breakup after all."

"So David and Annie weren't bonded?" Finch sighed heavily into the phone. "Of course they weren't. Please forgive my stupidity."

To have been that close to happiness and then have it snatched away by something society dictated overruled everything. He couldn't even begin to imagine the pain. "The poor bastard."

"It's still no excuse for trying to kill an innocent woman, Mr. Reese."

Easy enough to say for someone who'd successfully bonded. "I'll see you tomorrow, Finch." He ended the call.

 

*

 

In the beginning, there'd only been him and Finch and he hadn't trusted either one of them. He'd gotten so much wrong, put all his faith in immoral institutions that saw him as disposable and then Finch had manipulated him into working for him by preying on the dregs of his finer feelings. They'd both had far too many secrets and in the end he'd only taken the job Finch had offered because he'd seen it as a faster way to killing himself than cheap whisky. 

There'd been distrust and suspicion and, yes, eventually amusement at what he'd seen as Finch's affectations, the expensive flamboyant suits, the vests, the shock of hair. But slowly and surely he'd come not only to trust Finch but to admire his brilliance, his untainted world view, even his waspish sense of humor and the ground had shifted under him. Finch had become the best friend he'd ever had and what little remained of his tattered heart had warmed to him. 

Still, he'd been taken aback at the jealousy he'd felt when he'd found out about Grace and how Finch still watched over her. He'd admired Finch even more for being able to remain that distant from his bondmate in order to protect her, such an incredible act of selflessness. Because of the void Grace had left, he'd felt that Finch was his just as surely as he was Finch's and it was enough to make him want to continue to strive to be a better person. He couldn't stand to disappoint another person he— who had faith in him.

 

*

 

He was two beers in when Fusco and Shaw showed up at the bar and joined him in his third round, Fusco ordering whisky. 

"Here's to the poor bastard." Fusco raised his glass and they all drank deeply. 

Two whiskys in and Fusco sloped off muttering about an early start. Shaw got a double order of fries and turned to stare at him as she ate them a handful at a time. 

"So, what's your story, sad sack?"

"Not your style, Shaw."

"No, but I like to know what I'm dealing with." She motioned to the bartender for another round. "Still mooning over the CIA eradicating our marks?"

"Yeah." The odds against anyone finding their bondmate were astronomically high but the CIA didn't like to take any chances. 

"I feel like they did us a favor." 

Shaw would. He'd hated it but felt it was his duty. 

"They did what had to be done." What if they'd been unable to finish a mission because they'd bonded with an enemy agent? For all he knew, he'd killed his bondmate years ago. 

 

He woke up sweating in the middle of the night from yet another nightmare, the worst of the ones he regularly had. It wasn't one of the many involving the faces of people he'd murdered but the one where he said goodbye to Jessica in the airport, over and over again. 

"Is it because we're not bonded, John?"

"Yes." At the time he'd been cruel to be kind, feeling like shutting the door permanently would free her to go on but look what that had got her.

He knew from past experience he'd never get back to sleep so he got up and turned the coffee maker on. For a bond to be made, you had to come into contact with the exposed lower back of your predestined bondmate and unless that happened your soul mark would remain invisible forever. It was such a rare occurrence that most people met and fell in love and then checked. He'd loved Jessica like he'd never loved anyone before and when they'd realized they weren't bondmates, despite loving each other so very much, they'd both been disappointed but only momentarily. The great majority of people lived very contented and happy lives with someone of their own choosing, bondmates be damned.

He felt sorry again for Greene. He didn't know what was worse, to have never found your bondmate or to have found them like Harold had and then been forced to separate. 

He did know though. He'd spent too much time watching Harold watch Grace not to know. He'd been curious about what type of person she was, a natural curiosity to have and absolutely nothing to do with his own— affection for Harold, now the most important person in his life, so he'd decided to meet her.

Grace was even more wonderful that he'd ever imagined she could be. Untouched by the everyday evil that surrounded them, she was a talented artist, creating rather than destroying the way he'd destroyed everything he'd ever touched. The way in which she spoke of her dead fiancé, the way she handled the photograph of the two of them together like it was infinitely precious, spoke volumes. She'd been wearing a soft sweater and from the way it draped across her back as she'd reached to pour him a drink proved she was not wearing a protective patch or at least an undershirt, the way every unbonded person did. That's when he'd known for sure about Harold and Grace. To have discovered something so rare and then have given it up willingly made his heart ache for Harold. And Grace, of course. He'd told Harold he'd met her in case Harold ever felt the need to talk about it. He hadn't. He'd tried not to dwell on how bad he'd felt for Harold, putting it down to the CIA removing any chance he might of ever had himself of finding his bondmate. Not that he hated anyone enough to wish them bonded to him for life. 

He killed time while the coffee brewed doing a series of floor stretches. 

Like every other child, he'd been told fairy tales. Cinderella's glass slipper soul mark matching her prince's and Snow White and Prince Charming's apple marks had been particular favorites of his sister's but they'd both loved them all. It was part of every child's fondest wishes and a sign of adulthood to realize that it actually happened for so few, the odds stacked against you. To go around deliberately touching people's backs was against the law and incurred harsh penalties because you might break up an otherwise successful relationship but if discovered, the law permitted you to be with your bondmate no matter what. It made no sense but then when had the law ever made sense?

 

He was staring at Greene's picture when Finch stepped up beside him.

"Why are you so troubled by this number? I know the likelihood we'll survive long enough to find—" 

"You know everything about me, Finch." He sat down on the couch. "Don't pretend you don't know the CIA permanently removes your soul mark before they put you in the field."

"I really didn't know, Mr. Reese." Finch sat down at his desk, not quite meeting his eyes. "So they wouldn't have taken you if you were already bonded." He almost didn't catch it as Finch spoke so quietly. "It's not difficult to understand the practical reasons for it..." Finch cleared his throat. "...but how on earth do they manage it?"

He knew Finch's curiosity was so strong it had overwhelmed even his excellent manners. It was considered incredibly rude to ask even a couple you strongly suspected were bondmates any questions about their soul marks.

"They employ a Rionnag."

"I thought they were a myth." He didn't think Finch even realized he'd turned all the way round and wheeled closer to the couch. speaking in hushed tones.

"Everyone does." He'd laughed when his section head had told him what was going to happen. 

"What was the Rionnag like?" 

"A short, balding, non-descript middle aged man in a doctor's coat."

"How do you know they weren't lying to you? It's not like your soul mark was visible anyway else I presume they wouldn't have taken you."

"Because when he touched my lower back it felt like someone had spilled acid on me. I passed out from the searing pain of it." He shouldn't say anything more about it. "...If I'd known Rionnags were real, I'm not sure I'd have ever let him touch me."

"The pain does sound extraordinary—"

"No, that he really could remove any chance of my ever finding my bondmate, no matter how unlikely. I didn't believe it was possible to really remove a soul mark anymore than you did."

"You sound ashamed, John."

"Even given what I know about the CIA now I'd have still been putting my own hopes and desires before my duty."

"And that might well be your Achilles Heel, Mr. Reese."

"What?"

"They even tell you on planes when you're flying with a child to put your own mask on before helping them with theirs. You have to have something of your own John, something to make life worth living."

Why, when he could never have what he wanted? "And Grace is an example of following your own advice?" 

Finch flinched like he'd struck him. 

"I'm sorry, Harold."

Finch turned back to his computer. "It's all right, Mr. Reese. I pried into your private business which I had no right to do. Please accept my apologies, I didn't mean to upset you."

He spent the next ten minutes staring at the exposed strip of skin between Finch's hairline and his collar, willing him to turn back around and face him but he didn't. As he watched, he saw a single bead of sweat run down the back of Finch's neck and yearned to trace it with his tongue. 

He sat bolt upright. Where the hell had that come from? "See you later, Finch." He made the fastest exit he could without literally running away. 

It was fine, everything was fine, there was no need to freak out, no need at all. It wasn't like he hadn't had male lovers as well as female, even if 'lover' was too strong a word for mutual relief in the army. He just hadn't got laid in a while and Finch was his only strong emotional attachment so it only made sense he might start seeing him that way. It had been a very long time since he'd stopped seeing Finch as ridiculous and started seeing him as, well, Harold, the finest man he'd ever known. Everything was fine. He'd just get laid. He left his phone at home. 

 

The night club was too dark, too noisy, too crowded and much too impersonal. It was perfect. He'd changed into a white t-shirt, jeans and boots and while he glanced out over the dance floor he knew places like this well enough to go to the bar, get himself a drink and wait to be approached. He'd had enough people tell him he was physically attractive to own it and had used it to his advantage more times than he cared to count, many of those times in service of his country. It was enough to get what he wanted. None of them were going to get close enough to him to discover how ugly he was on the inside. He turned down the first two men who approached him. The first was obviously lying about his age – "go home, kid, and find someone your own age" – and the second bore more resemblance to Snow than he cared to dwell on. Sat at the end of the bar was a dark haired middle-aged man with a wiry build, clad in a perfectly tailored and really expensive, if more conservatively colored, suit than he was used to seeing. He'd started moving in that direction, thinking again how dark the club was and if he just squinted— he stopped dead in his tracks. Even he had enough sense to know it was a really bad idea.

"Hey, I'm Andy!" A muscular thirty-something with shaggy blond hair and clothing so tight it must have been airbrushed on, stepped in front of him. "Can I buy you a drink?" He leaned in closer and John fought the impulse to lean away. This was what he was here for after all. "Or I could just blow you out back?" 

He nodded and let Andy or whatever the hell his name really was, lead the way. 

 

He woke up in his own apartment, stretched out across the bed, still fully clothed, boots and all. Andy had worn him out and he must have just passed out when he got home. He rolled over to stare at the ceiling, scratching at his belly. 

 

_The back room was even darker, lit only by emergency lights, and he might have stopped to admire some of the varied coupling going on around him but Andy had dropped to his knees as soon as they'd found an open space and he'd been pretty focused after that as Andy unzipped him and sucked him down. He'd been just on the verge of getting off when Andy had stood up. He might have said something then but Andy was unbuckling his belt and pulling down his jeans and briefs and it didn't take John long to get with the program. Andy handed him a lube sachet and turned to brace his arms against the wall._

_"Condom?"_

_Andy looked back over his shoulder, gasping as John's lubed finger breached him. "I prefer to go without one."_

_He regretfully wiped his finger off on Andy's ass cheek. "Then you'd better find another playmate." He'd stopped gambling unnecessarily with his own life since he'd become responsible for keeping Harold— the numbers, alive._

_Andy frowned at him. "I don't have one on me, but if you do, don't stop now."_

_He reached into his pocket and pulled one out, tearing the foil open and rolling it carefully down over his erection before reaching for Andy again._

 

He was getting hard just remembering it. He got up off the bed, discarded his boots and clothes – there was no saving his t-shirt – and was walking into the bathroom when his phone started ringing. He glanced at the screen and when he saw it was Fusco he almost didn't pick up but then thought better of it. He'd been out of touch with Finch all night so maybe Fusco had been sent to take care of something in his absence and got in too deep. 

"It's Fusco. Elias has taken Finch."

He sat down heavily on the couch. "How do you know it was Elias?"

"One of Elias' men called me with his demands when he couldn't get you on the phone."

"Which are?" John was throwing on clean clothes as he put the phone on speaker. 

"A million dollars and a case of Uzis."

"That doesn't sound like Elias." He sat to slip on his shoes. "Guess I'll have to go and ask him myself just to check it's right."

 

He'd already shot the knees out from under four of Elias' men and was advancing on Anthony's position behind some packing crates when Elias' voice came over the warehouse speaker system. 

"If you'd just stop shooting my men for a minute, John, you might tell me what I'm supposed to have done lately to piss you off."

"You took Finch."

"No, I didn't John, but if you'd like to join Anthony and me in my office I'd like to hear just what makes you think I did."

Anthony led the way up the warehouse stairs and John followed him. Anthony moved around to stand behind Elias and John stood as close to the desk as he figured Anthony would let him get away with. 

"Christ, John, you look like you were run over. How long's he been missing?"

"I'm not sure exactly, I was busy last night."

"Is that what the kids are calling it now." Elias smiled as John glared at him. "You smell like a brothel."

"Stop changing the subject." 

"Well then, I'd like to know your evidence against me."

John played the voice mail Fusco had forwarded to him. Elias turned to glance up at Anthony who nodded. 

"Sounds like Hammerhead." Anthony grinned at him and he gritted his teeth while he resisted the urge to knock Anthony's out. "He's not a shark, he just likes to take hammers and—"

"I'm sure John gets the picture." Elias started drawing a simple map on a piece of paper. "Not really a place you can give an address for but if does have your Finch, that's where they'll be."

"Why are you helping me, Elias?"

"Because I like Finch." Elias leaned back in his chair. "And because Hammerhead shouldn't have taken my name in vain."

 

Fusco had been waiting for him in the car. There had been two unlucky men stationed outside the building Elias had directed them to, unlucky in that he wasn't interested in shooting them in the knees, not this time, because they had Finch and he wasn't going to take any chances. They'd cleared another two floors and left behind one more man with intact kneecaps that wasn't going to ever need to use them again. 

They'd found Finch tied face down to a table, shirtless, his back criss-crossed with welts oozing blood, but that still wasn't as bad as his left hand which had obviously been struck several times with a hammer. 

The man he assumed was Hammerhead was scrunched down behind the head of the table, his hammer poised above Finch's head. 

"Back away now or I'll—"

He shot Hammerhead through his shoulder, the only part of him clearly exposed. He howled and dropped the hammer, running for the door out to the parking lot. As he ran past Finch, yelling at Fusco to untie him, he stopped dead at the sight of Finch's exposed and unmarked lower back. He hadn't been bonded to Grace—

"You can stare later, lunkhead, he's getting away." Fusco's voice snapped him back from a daze. 

He caught up with Hammerhead as he was trying to unlock his car. He swung around and shot wide of John who shot him in the arm, making him drop the gun. He was tempted to keep shooting, taking his own sweet time in putting Hammerhead out of John's misery but Finch was badly wounded and he didn't have time to mess around so instead he put a swift bullet between Hammerhead's eyes. 

 

There was a surprise waiting for him back in the building. Finch was sitting up on the edge of the table, his hand undamaged, if still red and swollen looking. There was no way he'd seen that wrong. Fusco had slipped out of his jacket and was pulling it up around Finch's shoulders when he intervened by pulling the coat back down. Fusco sighed heavily but didn't try to stop him. 

There were no fresh wounds on Finch's back, just a few fading ridges. And there, at the small of Finch's back, was a capital 'L' in a star. 

Finch pulled Fusco's coat back up and on and slowly did up the buttons. 

It couldn't be. In no way, in no universe did Fusco deserve to be Finch's bondmate but there was no other possible explanation. He was pretty sure he could kill Fusco without harming Finch but he'd have to do the research first. "But I was only gone a few minutes."

Fusco started to speak but Finch cut him off with a hand on his arm. "That's all it takes, John."

If he killed Fusco now perhaps there was a chance that the bond hadn't taken fully yet and Finch could still be bonded to someone worthier, someone like Grace. He clenched and unclenched his hands at his sides, determined not to strangle Fusco with his bare hands, not in front of Finch at least.

"I'm grateful, to Fu-Lionel."

The only possible explanation was that Finch had suffered a head injury as well.

"Without the restorative power of the bond, I think I might have lost my hand."

He should be grateful, he was grateful but for it to be Fusco of all people was like twisting a knife in his stomach. 

" Lionel, if you would see me home."

He stood there as Fusco led his Finch, now Fusco's bondmate, away up the stairs. He'd never been invited to Finch's home and now he never would be. 

He wasn't surprised by how much more attached to Fusco Bear was. He had no way of knowing for sure but suspected bondmates smelled alike to a dog's finer tuned sense of smell. Bear did seem to lose interest in Fusco after a while but it was probably because Bear had just gotten used to it.

He was surprised by how little Fusco was around. He'd always assumed new bondmates would be fuck— spending as much time together as they possibly could and finally came to the unfortunate conclusion that Fusco must be living at Finch's house but still giving him space because of the numbers. 

In the meantime, his research turned up definitive evidence that a person could survive the death of their bondmate but evidence of any ability to forge another bond afterwards was non-existent. Fusco still didn't deserve Finch but he had no right to take the bondmate experience away from Finch, not when it was the one thing everyone dreamed of having. He caught himself on stakeouts imagining what their sex life might be like. He had no trouble imagining Finch naked but when he realized he was imagining his own hands on him and not Fusco's he had to make himself stop imagining it or risk going insane. It might have been easier on him if it was just the sex but imagining Fusco as Finch's confidante, the one who got to hold him, comfort him and belong to him was even harder to bear. The truth, which he'd been far too late in admitting to himself, was that he was irrevocably in love with Harold Finch. He was so fucking screwed but then even if Finch didn't now have a bondmate John would have never considered himself fit to touch him.

Once he'd realized who he wanted no one night stand was ever going to scratch his itch. He woke up repeatedly, sweating from nightmares where Fusco had invited John into his and Finch's bed. The horror wasn't over Fusco, but that he always pathetically said yes, as if sharing Harold would ever be enough. Luckily, he wasn't ever really invited. So, the numbers kept coming and he led the life of a monk in the meantime. As long as Finch was happy, he would endure anything, could endure anything.

 

And then Michael Wilson's number came up. He worked in cyber security for DeaverTel, an international software company that had major contracts with the U.S. military. John had always preferred to keep Finch out of the field as much as possible but he had no choice but to take him with him when he went to investigate a building Wilson owned off the books that was using far too much energy. Inside, it had been arranged to look like an artist's studio but a quick investigation turned up a barred trapdoor in the corner, hidden under a Kilim rug. In the basement, as Finch had predicted, were multiple computers arranged around a desk surrounded by monitors.

Finch had just sat down at the desk when the trapdoor slammed shut above them. 

He charged back up the stairs, hitting the door just as the bolt slid home. His shoulder wouldn't forgive him anytime soon. 

As he came back down the stairs, Finch was already checking his phone. "I can't get a signal."  
Finch went back to typing, his hands flying over the keyboard.

"You're not worried?"

"Lionel should be here later."

So the stories were true."I'd always thought the psychic link between bondmates was a myth."

"What?" Finch didn't even turn away from the screen. "Oh, that. No, I left a message for him at home, letting him know where were going. I'm sure he'll come by to check on us after his shift."

At least Finch had one partner he could rely on. He realized they were in for a long wait and as Finch was sitting in the only chair, he sat down on the floor, leaning back against one of the few spots of bare wall. He could feel the cold seeping up through the concrete and pulled his coat tighter around himself. 

"Wilson has been selling military passwords to the highest bidder." John watched the reflections of the code on the monitors in Finch's glasses. "Ah, there's a tracker embedded in here. Probably CIA."

"Another number solved."

"John!" Harold turned to face him.

A traitor was a traitor. "Until we get out of here there's not much we can do about it, Finch."

"I suppose not." Finch was pulling his own coat tighter around him now he didn't have computer hacking to distract him from the cold. "Wilson has unfortunately done an exceptional job of cooling his computers."

"Come here." 

Harold looked suspicious, but he came to stand in front of him. He put up his arms. 

"Turn around and I'll help lower you down to sit in front of me."

"That's really not necessary."

"You think Fusco would object?"

"Lionel?" Harold now looked puzzled, a look which suited him much better. "No, of course not."

"Then sit down. The cold doesn't do your joints any good, we can share body heat and you can support your neck by leaning back against me."

Finch sat down, with John's help. He spread his legs wider so Finch could sit comfortably between them and pulled Finch back against him, settling his head and neck against his shoulder. Then he pulled his coat around both of them. 

"Thank you, Mr. Reese. This really is much more comfortable."

He was glad to hear it was more comfortable for one of them at least. Finch's face was now mere inches away from his and if he were to just turn his head— he didn't. Instead, he sat there breathing in Finch's subtle cologne, Finch's surprisingly soft hair occasionally brushing against his neck, just enjoying being allowed to hold him. 

He didn't even realize they'd both nodded off, it really was dangerous for him to be so comfortable with anyone, until the bolt sliding back on the trapdoor woke him up. He slid out from behind the just waking up Finch – "stay there!" – and pulled his gun, aiming upwards. 

"Don't shoot!" 

It was Fusco but he behaved himself and still didn't shoot. 

They'd just made it out of the basement, Harold brushing off his clothes, when Wilson came through the front door armed, aiming straight at Fusco, the only one of them who still had his gun out. John didn't hesitate. He put himself between Fusco and Wilson in exactly the same way he would have for Finch. 

He fell as the bullet struck him, seeing Wilson fall too as Fusco shot him in turn.

"John, you can't die on me now, John!" Finch was down on his knees though his body must be protesting every moment of it, his hands cradling John's head.

His last thought as he bled out on the floor was of Finch and how to save him yet another heartbreak had made his whole life worthwhile.


	2. Chapter 2

He was surprised to wake up in the safehouse, in the hospital bed he'd began to think of as his, he'd spent so much time in it. 

Finch was sitting in the chair beside his bed, asleep, his clothes wrinkled and his face unshaved. 

Finch was disheveled enough that John wondered if he was still asleep and dreaming or still dead and in what would pass for heaven for him. 

"Sleeping beauty's awake, Finch— Harold." 

_Fusco._ He was standing at the foot of the bed, leaning on it. 

Finch jerked awake, standing and groaning at the sudden motion as his legs and back complained. "I felt certain we'd lost you this time, Mr. Reese." He reached out a hand like he was going to touch John's arm but slowly withdrew it and sat awkwardly back down in the chair. 

John carefully stretched, noting only a slight stiffness in his left arm but then they probably still had him on the really good drugs. 

"I thought I took one to the chest."

Finch stared down at his hands. "You did... but it was higher than it first looked, in your left shoulder. Dr. Tillman expects you to make a full recovery."

Fusco actually coughed to attract his attention. "Look, I just wanted to thank you—"

"I didn't do it for you, Fusco."

"I know that, I'm not as stupid as you think, I don't think it's possible I could be, but I'm grateful all the same that my son still has a father."

Finch stared at Fusco like they were having some sort of silent conversation. Perhaps bondmates really were psychic despite what Finch had told him.

"...And that Harold still has his bondmate of course."

He didn't sound very convincing. If Fusco wasn't doing right by Finch he really would kill him with his bare hands. 

"We should leave Mr. Reese to get some sleep, F— Lionel."

 

When he next woke up, Dr. Tillman was checking his vitals. "Good, you're awake."

"Thanks, doc, for everything."

"You should be thanking, Fusco," she murmured as she peeled back the bandage on his shoulder to check his wound. 

"What?"

"Forget it." She leaned a little too heavily into his wound causing him to wince. "Sorry. I worked back to back shifts at the hospital and I'm basically ready to face plant. Of course I meant Fusco should be grateful you saved his life."

"I didn't do it for Fusco." He hated to repeat himself but he wanted this one thing clearly understood by everyone if nothing else ever was. 

He doubted Dr. Tillman even realized she was rubbing his arm in a comforting manner. "I understand, John. Believe me, I do."

 

He spent a week in the hospital bed. He had regular visits from Dr. Tillman, Shaw who always brought junk food with her and then ate most of it and Bear, Fusco and Finch. He could have done without Fusco visiting but he could endure anything to have Finch near and he could swear he felt markedly improved after every one of their visits. 

The next time Dr. Tillman was due he was sitting up on the side of the bed. 

"I don't think you're ready yet—"

"I'm ready. Just help me get out of this bed before I lose what little is left of my mind."

"Let me just call the hospital and let them know I'll be in soon."

She started to gather his clothes, insisting his left arm would have to be put in a supportive sling if he thought she really was going to let him leave the hospital bed. For someone who'd been shot enough to know how bad his wound must have been he was surprised that he really only felt sore, like he hadn't been using his left arm enough. 

She was helping him into his shirt when he felt it as he flexed, a bandage stuck low across his back. 

"That's really considerate, Doc, but I usually make do with wearing an undershirt rather than a protective patch."

She looked worried. "Sorry. It's standard medical procedure." She put on a pair of latex gloves. "I'll just peel it off and help you into your undershirt."

As she reached to peel it off, he turned sideways on the end of the bed. She bent down to pick up his clean undershirt, no doubt brought for him by Finch, and that's when he saw it, reflected in the mirror, a capital 'L' in a star on the small of his back. 

Maybe he really had died and gone to hell or was in a coma and having the nightmare to end all nightmares even though he'd rather Fusco was his bondmate than Finch's. 

"Do you see it, Doc?" He had to be hallucinating. He couldn't have anyone's soul mark thanks to the CIA and Fusco was already bonded to Finch.

He didn't think she was going to answer him as she slipped his undershirt over his head. 

"Doc?"

And still she didn't answer him, dragging the undershirt down over his torso. As he started to pull its hem back up again she stopped him. 

"Yes, I see it. It's Fusco's soul mark."

"But he's bonded to Finch!"

She started to help him into his shirt, quickly doing up the buttons. "You'll have to ask Fusco about that."

"Why?" 

"It's really not my place to discuss a soul mark. It's against my medical oath."

If the fates thought a three-way was the way to go they had another damn thing coming. 

"Where are my car keys?"

Despite his sense of urgency, Dr. Tillman insisted on driving him back to his apartment, worried the restricted movement in his left arm might put him back in that same hospital bed otherwise. She saw him safely inside the lobby but stopped there. 

"I called Finch. They're waiting for you upstairs." She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. "The next time I see you I don't want to have to patch you up again... or anyone else we know."

 

Bear was the first and only one to greet him. Fusco stood up from the couch immediately but Finch remained sitting. 

He was deeply disturbed by how hard he had to resist invading Fusco's space and not to punch him. He just wanted to wrap his arms around him and— the best form of defense was always a good offence. 

"How the hell did you manage it, Fusco?" And where did this leave Finch? Despite the compulsion he was feeling towards Fusco, an inner voice that kept chanting 'mine, mine, mine!' Finch's happiness still meant more to him than his own. Fortunately, he wasn't used to ever getting anything he really wanted which made it easier to resist. "The CIA erased my soul mark years ago."

Fusco looked over at Finch who nodded at him. "What they don't tell you, Reese, is that it only lasts for five years then the laying on of hands has to be repeated for the block to hold."

"How would you know that, Fusco?"

"The Fuscos are Rionnags, have been since time immemorial."

"So, what? You can just force your mark on anyone you want?" Fusco had cheated to get Finch. His hands curled into fists. Pain flashed through his shoulder but he ignored it. 

"Don't flatter yourself." Fusco was now looking equally pissed.

"Gentlemen, please." 

They both turned to stare at Finch and his anger only grew at how much work it was to tear his eyes away from Fusco. 

"You should be grateful to Lionel, I certainly am."

John's legs suddenly didn't feel so stable. He sat down heavily in the armchair and Fusco sat as well, careful to keep a distance between himself and Finch. 

"He saved our lives, John, and at no small cost to himself." 

Definitely a coma then, no question. 

"Rionnags can, among other things, temporarily soul bond with anyone to save their life but at great cost to themselves. It's their tragedy that they can never form a permanent bond with anyone. Can you imagine what it's like to be able to see flashes of what that would be like but never to actually have it?"

He wasn't a Rionnag but he understood that feeling completely. Maybe Fusco wouldn't die today.

"If you're not going to kill me, I need to get back to the station." And with that, Fusco was gone. 

 

"You need to lie down, Mr. Reese." Finch got up to offer him a hand but he managed to slowly ease himself out of the chair without assistance. 

With what was left of his adrenaline surge fading, he knew Finch was right and walked slowly over to his bed. 

Finch slipped John's jacket from his shoulders, concern etched into the lines of his face. "Do you need help undressing?" 

"No, thanks." He took the sling off his arm and sat down on the edge of the bed, Finch for once looming over him. 

"At least let me help you with your shoes." 

He didn't say anything as Finch slowly kneeled to remove his shoes and socks, just stared down at the top of his head. When Finch was finished, he put his hands on John's knees for leverage but wavered as he went to stand and John made a grab to steady him, Finch's hands going to his shoulders. He ended up with his face pressed up hard against Finch's stomach, his hands splayed out across his lower back. Any minute now, Harold would apologize for his clumsiness and John would tell him it was all right and then Harold would move away—

John lowered his head and mouthed at Harold's crotch, thrilled at his responsiveness before Harold pushed him away, John landing on his back, grunting as his shoulder made contact with the bed underneath him. 

"I shouldn't have—" he was cut off as Harold followed him down, kissing him like their lives depended on it. They pushed awkwardly against each other, hampered by clothing, injuries old and new and their unwillingness to let up, to slow things down and get their bearings, even for a moment. Gasping for breath, Harold's teeth sharp at his neck and his knee pressing far too hard against John's trapped erection, he moaned as Harold's hand shifted, pressing into his injured shoulder, leaving him hanging on the bright edge of pleasure/pain. Harold started to pull back again but he refused to let go, collapsing Harold against him, digging his fingers in hard where Harold's shirt had ridden up to keep him there, as Harold struggled unsuccessfully to take the pressure off John's shoulder. He rutted up against him as Harold pushed back, biting at John's lips, the sharp coppery taste of his own blood in his mouth as Harold stiffened against him. 

"Fuck!" 

That word from Harold Finch's mouth was all it took for him to follow him over the edge. 

 

As their breathing returned to normal, Harold stood up, a grimace on his face as he pulled at the damp fabric over his crotch, the wet spot all too evident on his light grey suit. 

"Harold?"

Harold couldn't even meet his eyes. "I'm sorry, Mr. Reese."

It seemed a bit late in the day for 'Mr. Reese' but he understood Harold's need to distance himself from John now he was back in his right mind and undoubtedly regretting every second of what had just happened between them.

"The connection to Fusco—"

"That's the only thing that makes sense." He could see where this was going and he didn't want to hear it, didn't want to hear that Finch wouldn't have ever touched him if he hadn't still been frustrated from resisting that same pull to Fusco John had felt. "He must have left some psychic residue behind on both of us."

"...Yes, I suppose that is the only possible explanation." Finch spoke so quietly he almost didn't hear him. Finch pulled on his overcoat which covered up most of the damage to his clothing and left without another word. 

John was left to clean up his own residue.


	3. Chapter 3

Waking up in a hospital bed in an actual hospital was a new experience. He might have even worried about it if Dr. Tillman hadn't been stood by his bed, studying his chart. 

"Doc?" His voice sounded rusty and unused and his throat was dry and scratchy. 

The last thing he remembered before it all went black was locking eyes with Harold across the rooftops, content to die in the certain knowledge that Harold would survive. "Harold?"

"Safe and well." Dr. Tillman helped him sit up and got him a glass of water, cautioning him to sip it slowly or risk gagging on it, like this was his first rodeo.

"How?" There was no way he could have survived what happened on that roof. Not unless... "Fusco?"

She nodded and pulled back the curtain dividing the room. Fusco was sat up in the room's other bed, eating Jello. 

"I see Sleeping Beauty is awake at last." Fusco raised his Jello cup in a mock salute.

"Lionel was in a coma almost as long as you were." Dr. Tillman stood between them, arms folded. "If Shaw and Lionel hadn't reached you when they did— we came far too close to losing both of you."

"But Finch is safe?" He didn't care if he sounded like a broken record. 

"Yeah, he's safe. The doc here patched him up and as soon as he was well enough to travel, he went to Italy, to see Grace. I'm sorry, Reese."

"I'm not." It was better than he could have even hoped for. Harold was alive and reunited with Grace, finally getting to live the life he'd always deserved.

"Shaw didn't want to tell him you were alive until she knew for sure you were going to make it." Fusco put down his empty Jello cup. "But now that you're better she can get right on that."

"No."

"But he'd want to know. He'd want to see you and—"

"No. He's out and he's going to stay out." He knew he'd never be able to see Harold again without blurting out his feelings and Harold didn't need anything else to be guilty about. "Thank you for saving my life, Lionel, but no one's going to tell Finch anything."

Fusco was muttering about how he had to stop risking his life to save people too stupid to live as he pulled the curtain between them closed again.

 

It took him another long slow month to make it out of the hospital and he was surprised to find Shaw waiting for him. "I'm keeping, Bear."

He stared up at her from the hospital's non-negotiable wheelchair. "Nice to see you too, Shaw. I'm feeling a lot better, thanks for asking."

She quirked one eyebrow at him and handed over a driver's license with his picture on it and the name 'John Wren.'

It was his turn to quirk an eyebrow. The use of language was greatly overrated. 

"There's a suitcase waiting for you at Grand Central Station under that name. Turns out Finch had a retirement plan set up for all of us and, let's face it, you're going to need yours sooner rather than later." Shaw's people skills were as underdeveloped as ever. "Bye, Reese. Have a nice life."

 

And there was nothing left to do after that but to have a nice life. The suitcase yielded access to more money than he'd ever be able to spend, no matter how long he managed to live, and the address and keys to a beautiful house in Maine, overlooking the sea. He'd meant to stay there for just a few weeks, just long enough to recuperate, but six months on he was still there, still loving the solitude and still without any real plans for his future. 

 

At the beginning, he'd been able to put off making any plans as he'd focused everything on making as full a recovery as he possibly could. All he knew how to do was to be a weapon and he'd still had hopes of getting back into something close to fighting shape, maybe even going back to being a cop or getting into security work. Fusco had saved his life but the damage to his body had been far too extensive to make anything like a full recovery possible. His left arm was permanently weakened and while his limp had improved it worsened when he was tired and due to his lung capacity being only 70% of what it had once been that was still too frequently. He'd been lucky that the bullet that had creased the left side of his head hadn't taken his eye with it but his hair would never grow back there and what was left of it was now completely silver. Luckily, thanks to Finch's largesse he didn't have to rely on his looks or he'd have starved. 

 

He'd been sat out on the porch, watching the sunset, when a cab had pulled up at the end of his driveway and dropped off a passenger. He had one of his many guns tucked behind his chair, old habits die hard, but realized he wasn't going to need it as a beloved figure limped slowly towards him. 

He took off down the driveway as fast as he could go, meeting him halfway. "Finch!" 

He extended his hand but Finch ignored it, stepping in as close as he could get and wrapping both arms around him. 

"John!" And then Harold kissed him. 

 

He woke up slowly, sunlight streaming through the bedroom window and immediately checked the other side of the bed which was disappointingly empty, but at least the sheets were still warm. 

He found Harold in the kitchen making coffee, looking ridiculously adorable in a set of John's sweats. 

Harold pushed the arms up on the sweatshirt. "If you didn't keep destroying my clothes I wouldn't need to be wearing these."

Obviously he'd failed to keep the smirk off his face, just like they'd failed to restrain themselves the night before. They'd only managed to make it as far as the porch before they'd been on each other again, every bit as intense if more gentle than they'd managed in John's apartment and this time Harold had even managed to work his hand down into John's sweatpants, jerking him off. 

Harold passed him a cup of coffee and they sat down at the kitchen table in companionable silence. Harold put his hand over John's, caressing it lightly. 

John didn't want to speak, didn't want to break the spell, knowing that sooner or later, probably sooner, Harold would apologize for simply being overwhelmed at finding out John was still alive and that he hadn't meant it to happen again between them, not now Grace was back in his life. 

"I went to Italy, to see Grace." 

John tried to withdraw his hand but Harold gripped it tighter.

"I went to see her because I felt after everything that had happened, I owed her the truth. And then I left and as I believed you were dead I spent the rest of the time I was gone wandering around Europe, revisiting a few old haunts."

Poor Harold. "Why wouldn't she take you back?"

"I didn't ask her to do that, why would I?"

"Because you're a much better man than you think, Harold, and because you deserve to be with the one you love."

Harold had that look on his face he always got when the last puzzle piece finally slid into place. "That's why I'm here, John." He raised his hand to touch John's face and he leaned into it. "The moment I got back to New York and Shaw told me you were alive this was the only place I wanted to be, the only place I've ever wanted to be, with you."

"That makes two of us." He stood up, took Harold's hand and led him back to their bedroom. 

 

Neither one of them were in the prime of life anymore but what they lacked in stamina they made up for in creativity, slowly working their way through every room in the house. Harold had fucked him bent over the computer table, a long held fantasy of his back when John used to sit too close in the library which was more than fine with John as it had been one of his too. A lot of John's fantasies had involved himself naked and Harold still _mostly_ dressed in his bespoke suites. Harold had complained that he was going to have to find a different tailor but then tied John down to the Pilates machine with several of his best silk ties which were never the same again after he ripped a few loose and then came all over them while Harold was buried balls deep inside of him. 

And it did take time, though neither one of them really minded. Most of their days and nights were spent in quieter pursuits. They swam together in the indoor pool and took slow walks together along the shoreline, talking about everything and nothing. Cooking together quickly became a favorite pastime, trading bites of food and kisses as they swayed to music played over the house's excellent sound system. Cuddling up on the couch with popcorn watching movies was another one, at least once he'd won Finch over to his love of westerns and even the occasional action film. He particularly treasured lying on the couch with his head in Harold's lap as he ran his fingers lightly through John's hair, caressing him as he read aloud to him, even when it just ended with his falling asleep, his dreams untroubled for the first time in years, rather than with his mouth wrapped firmly around Harold's cock. 

 

He was out swimming laps when he realized that Harold had joined him, sitting naked on the edge of the pool. They never bothered with swimsuits and by now he knew Harold's body as well as his own but he still thrilled to how comfortable Harold was around him without his bespoke armor on. It wasn't until he made his next turn, working his way back down the pool that he saw Harold's legs were splayed and his hand was working back between his legs. He sped up his stroke, as did Harold. When he hit the side of the pool, he braced one arm on either side of him, watching avidly as Harold's fingers worked deep inside his body, John's own cock hardening at the sight. 

"It's not even my birthday."

Harold rolled his eyes but kept his fingers moving until John lost patience and started to lean in closer. 

"Stop!" 

John stopped. 

Harold slowly pulled his fingers out and braced his hands on John's shoulders. "This is technically the last room in the house." Harold slid off the side of the pool, grasped John's cock tightly in his hand and sunk down on it. They floated there, virtually weightless, steam from the warm pool swirling around them, the water almost cold against his skin in its sharp contrast to the heat of being buried deep inside Harold's body as they kissed each other tenderly, Harold peppering tiny kisses along his jaw line and whispering sweet nothings, meant only for the two of them. 

Harold pulled back slightly, until they were staring deeply into each other's eyes. 

"Fuck. Me." 

And then Harold bit him and he exploded into action, bracing his arms again against the side of the pool, plowing in and out of Harold's body, fast and hard the way Harold liked it best, causing a small tsunami as the water churned around them and they clung to each other for dear life, Harold's cock trapped tightly between them. He almost passed out from the force of his own orgasm but still blindly lifted Harold out of the water, sinking his mouth down over Harold's cock, deep throating him as he came. 

 

Later, showered and nestled up in bed together, trading kisses and caresses in the soft light, he winced as Harold tongued at the bite on his neck. 

"I had to go and fall for a foul mouthed vampire."

"You love it."

It had taken Harold no time at all to realize he was turned on by his voice, even more so when he swore, something he'd never heard Harold do outside of sex. 

The biting was all Harold but he didn't mind one bit. He would never bear Harold's soul mark but he bore his love bites more often than not and did it proudly. "I do." 

Harold flinched and he cursed his own choice of words. When Harold had asked him to marry him just days after he'd arrived at the Maine house, he'd hesitated too long in responding, still too deeply convinced of his unworthiness and Harold had kindly let him off the hook, telling him he'd wait for John to propose whenever he was finally ready. 

But at least there was one thing he could show him, even if he wasn't at all sure how Harold would react to it. He reached over and pulled the small bottle out of his bedside drawer and handed it to Harold, before turning over to lie on his front. 

He turned his head on the pillow to look at Harold, who was staring at the bottle in his hand, eyes wide. 

"I know it's considered an abomination but I've committed far greater sins with far less reason." Words were really Harold's territory, he was terrible with them. He should have just started with what he'd done and left the judgment to Harold. "You just—"

"Rub this on your back." Harold opened the bottle and poured a small amount of the oil inside into his palm. 

Of course Harold, of all people, would know what it was. 

The oil was cool on his lower back as it stripped off the semi-permanent covering. 

It had taken him three months to find anyone who'd even agree to do it, a masked man in the filthy basement of an underground club that catered to a clientele with very specialized tastes, a tattoo where your soul mark should be among the basest deviancies society could ever imagine. If Harold left now, he'd be broken but he'd understand. He'd had no right to drag Harold down into the gutter with him. 

Of all the possible responses he'd imagined, feeling Harold's fingers tracing the shape of it wasn't one of them. "Oh, John. It's a Finch." Harold pressed his mouth hotly against it, retracing the shape with his tongue, John writhing slightly at the sensation of such a forbidden act.

"You— can forgive this?"

"I'd have to be a hypocrite not to or at least I'd need to beg your forgiveness in return. There's a reason why I knew exactly what this bottle was." 

John watched, stunned, as Harold slowly turned onto his front, offering up his own back. Even as he applied the oil he still couldn't believe anything would be revealed by it but there it was, the permanent evidence of Harold's own debasement. 

01100111 01101111 01101111 01100100 00100000 01100011 01101111 01100100 01100101

He knew it was binary as he traced it with his fingers, but had no idea how to read it, not idea what it meant. "What does it say?"

"Good code."

"But you thought I was dead."

"It's older than that, John. What I'd tried to tell you that night in your apartment was that being temporarily connected to Fusco finally made me face up to being in love with you but you didn't want to hear it. I got this tattoo the week after that."

He couldn't stop touching it, remembering that long ago conversation with Harold when he'd told him anyone could evolve, improve and make themselves into something better. At the time he hadn't believed him, had felt that Harold was just trying to make him feel better about what Root had said, but here was the evidence, indelibly marked on Harold's skin, of his utter faith in John. Of how much Harold truly loved and valued him.

"John? Pay attention! I have a very serious question to put to you now."

No matter how much Harold loved him he still didn't feel worthy to be his husband but if marriage was what Harold wanted he'd do anything to make him happy, anything. 

"Now we've run out of rooms to fornicate in what are we going to do? Build on? Buy a new house?" The evil smile on Harold's face told him you really didn't need to be bondmates to read minds. 

He rolled, pinning Harold to the bed. "Start over, of course. As I remember, first up is the porch, then the kitchen, then the office... You're really going to have to get a new tailor or a really discreet dry cleaner—" Harold shut him up by kissing him. He could live with that. 

By the time they made it back through the house again, he might even be ready to pop the question.


End file.
